“I saw.”
He grins, and it feels so genuine that it hurts my chest anew. “You watched the game?”
“Of course.” My voice cracks.
“Hey, hey…” He comes closer to where I’m standing. He stops in front of me, tipping my chin up as he smiles down at me. “What’s with the sad face, Molly who works PR magic?”
I burst into tears.
He swears under his breath as he turns and closes my office door. Then he looks around, maybe trying to decide where the best place is to put a sobbing woman.
I try to wave him off, but he takes me by the shoulders and puts me in my chair before tugging the visitor chair around so he’s sitting right next to me, our knees so close they’re brushing.
“What happened?” he asks.
I can’t tell him.
We’ve only met twice. Three times if you count the time we got married when I was wearing amascot suit.
He finds me a tissue. Hands it over. And just… waits.
Which is the worst part, because it’s so kind. I’m not surprised that the gruff, growly coach has a kind side; he’d have to, to be good at his job, and he’s deeply loved by the team.
But still.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?”
My fingers shake. My throat closes up. I can’t tell him.
But I don’t need to.
I feel the moment his eyes land on the official piece of paper sitting next to my keyboard. The words are small, but maybe he can feel his name popping off the page.
His name.
My name.
My real nametyped out in plain English.
Not Captain Citrus. Molly Henderson. My signature scrawled above that too.
“What the hell?” He picks it up. His furrowed brow tightens to a frightening thunder-threat. Like a dark storm cloud swirling in mid-afternoon after a morning spent at a theme park. Not a care in the world, and then suddenly, it’s a deluge.
And I’ve been caught completely unprepared.
“I don’t know how it happened,” I whisper so faintly I’m not sure he hears me.
“Helen asked me to sign something.” His voice is distant too. Rough and confused.
I know the feeling, but I’ve had a few days to sit with it.
A few days where I tried to sort out the mistake, only to find out it wasn’t a mistake in the eyes of the state at all.
“I think it can be fixed,” I manage to squeak out. “But I can’t afford a lawyer.”
“Fixed?” That thunderous gaze lifts, heavy and dark, and aims right at me. “Molly, are we married?”
